


Arts of the Body

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Minor Injuries, Stitches, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Is it bad?” d’Artagnan asks, pushing himself up from the table and trying to twist his body around – as if he’ll be able to see anything anyway, Aramis thinks, as Athos shoves him unceremoniously back down again.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“For God’s sake lie still,” Athos mutters darkly.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Aramis knows Athos is just worried, but his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Better him than Porthos at the moment, though, whom Aramis is steadfastly refusing to even look at lest the pair of them dissolve into giggles.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arts of the Body

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhere pre-Episode 1x08.
> 
> I wanted to fill the Kink Bingo square for 'piercings/needleplay', but I didn't want to write either of them straight-up, so this is what I've ended up with. What it _is_ is a probably unrealistic depiction of a minor injury and its effects. 
> 
> There is some description of illness and stitching wounds, though it's nothing too graphic, and a brief mention of beating in a sexual context.

Aramis squints as he holds his sharpest needle up to the light, passing the thread through the eye with a sharpshooter’s focus, and valiantly suppressing the urge to smile too broadly at a fellow soldier’s misfortune.

It’s still a wound, after all; even though it’s not particularly deep, or in too threatening a place. There is still the possibility of an infection if his care is not sufficiently thorough, and he imagines the recovery from this one in particular is not going to be much fun at all.

He makes the mistake of glancing at Porthos, who has to put his hand over his mouth; and Aramis turns away quickly, having to bite his lip to repress his mirth.

It’s really not funny. But.

Trust d’Artagnan to get stabbed in the arse.

Athos is glaring at him, of course, sour as the cheap brandy he’s encouraging down d’Artagnan’s throat, because Athos never misses a single thing he’d be happier not seeing; and it’s not that Aramis wasn’t worried as well when he turned to see d’Artagnan half way up a ladder and some thug taking a lucky slice out of him, not at all – but now they’ve all seen for themselves that d’Artagnan’s going to be absolutely fine, he thinks Athos might try lightening up just a little.

He turns back to his patient, who’s lying face down on Aramis’ table with his breeches and smallclothes round his knees, waiting for him to do the honours; clearly nervous, as Aramis reckons it must be at least half a minute since he’s said anything.

“Alright, d’Artagnan, let’s get this done,” Aramis says matter-of-factly, patting d’Artagnan’s uninjured buttock (and earning himself a particularly vicious glare from Athos for his troubles, which absolutely does _not_ even make his lips twitch), before pouring a slug of brandy over the linen cloth in his hand and dabbing it along the long, shallow slice half an inch above the join of arse and thigh.

Aramis presses his other hand briefly to the small of d’Artagnan’s back as he hisses in pain.

“Is it bad?” d’Artagnan asks, pushing himself up from the table and trying to twist his body around – as if he’ll be able to see anything anyway, Aramis thinks, as Athos shoves him unceremoniously back down again.

“For God’s sake lie still,” Athos mutters darkly.

Aramis knows Athos is just worried, but his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.

Better him than Porthos at the moment, though, whom Aramis is steadfastly refusing to even look at lest the pair of them dissolve into giggles.

“Is it serious? No,” Aramis replies in answer to d’Artagnan’s question, knotting the end of the thread and leaning over, ready to begin his work. “Will it be a serious inconvenience? That, I can guarantee. Now, take Athos’ hand. You can cry out if you need to, but make sure you keep yourself still.”

When Aramis pushes the needle in and through d’Artagnan’s skin for the first time he is expecting a groan of pain, or even a curse, but all he hears is another hiss. He looks questioningly over at Athos as he pulls the thread taut, and receives a quirk of the eyebrow in response, meaning _he’s doing better than expected._

Aramis smiles to himself as he makes the second stitch. Maybe it’s weird of him, but he’s proud of the boy for taking it so stoically. You can’t really call yourself a soldier until you’ve been stitched up at least once, after all.

Still, it’s a long cut and he can’t be sure how long d’Artagnan will maintain his composure; so Aramis presses on, piercing skin and pulling through thread, falling into the familiar well-worn rhythm that’s the perfect mix of speed and precision.

This is his art; and it’s probably quite pretentious of him to say so – he can already imagine Athos rolling his eyes should he ever give voice to his thoughts – but d’Artagnan will wear this mark all his life, and Aramis wants it to be to the best of his own ability. He wants the boy’s future bedfellows to be able to trace their fingers along the faint, smooth line that will slowly form beneath his stitches as the skin re-knits and read both their histories there, both d’Artagnan’s sacrifice of flesh and blood, and Aramis’ own care, his healing.

“There we go,” he announces as he pulls the last stitch through, tying the end of the thread securely before cutting it with sharp scissors, pressing a hand briefly down on  d’Artagnan’s bare thigh. “All done. How are you feeling?”

“I… don’t know,” d’Artagnan replies haltingly. “Weird.”

“Nauseous?” Aramis asks, crouching down to wash off the needle in the bucket of water that’s standing ready next to the table leg.

“I don’t think so.” He can hear the frown in d’Artagnan’s voice. “I thought it was supposed to hurt more, actually.”

A comment rises immediately to Aramis’ lips about the boy having a thick arse, but the moment has passed before he can make the joke into something coherent.

He hears Porthos snort from the other side of the room, and is about to give him the finger when d’Artagnan starts to speak again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

“It’s sort of… warm. Like floating, in a hot bath.”

Now that, Aramis was _not_ expecting to hear.

He gets abruptly to his feet, where Athos gives him a look that says, _is he quite sane?_

 _Out!_ Aramis mouths in response, gesturing towards the door; and even though Athos glares at him again, expression a mix of annoyance and confusion, it’s testament to their trust in each other that he gets up from his chair without another word, encouraging Porthos from the room with a hand on his elbow, and quietly closing the door behind them.

Aramis sits himself down in Athos’ recently-vacated chair, watching d’Artagnan’s face closely as he returns all the pieces of his sewing kit to their rightful places.

D’Artagnan blinks at him a little dazedly, probably confused by the fact that he’s now sitting there instead of Athos. Aramis wonders if d’Artagnan’s even realised he’s spoken aloud.

“It probably feels that way because it’s not too deep a cut,” Aramis replies, trying to keep his tone light. “The body has its own defences against pain.” He puts a hand on d’Artagnan’s arm. “Can you describe it for me?”

D’Artagnan hesitates; but the boy’s the naturally open sort, and as Aramis watches, the brief struggle on his face resolves itself. “Well, I could feel the needle going through, and that was pretty disgusting,” he begins, still sounding like he’s having trouble finding the words, “and it _did_ hurt, all these little points of pain, but it stopped mattering, because there was this sort of warmth that flows out of them, and –” he stops abruptly, as if he’s just discovered something he wishes he hasn’t.

“Arousal?” Aramis supplies gently.

D’Artagnan stares at him for a moment in naked shock – and fear – before making to push himself up on an elbow as if he wants to bolt from the room.

Aramis sees it immediately, of course; and his hand moves immediately to press hard against the back of d’Artagnan’s neck, keeping him down against the table. “Keep still,” he warns, and notes that d’Artagnan subsides immediately, instead burying his face in one arm as if he wants to disappear.

“If you try and get up you’ll probably rip the stitching,” Aramis continues, more gently, “and we’ll just have to do it all over again,” stroking his thumb across the nape of d’Artagnan’s neck like he’s soothing a spooked horse, and feeling an all too inappropriate warmth when d’Artagnan shivers under his touch.

“This is just the way some of us are. Not everybody, granted, but you’re certainly not the only one,” Aramis tells him, and is gratified when d’Artagnan cautiously lifts his head once more, to look him in the eye. “It’s a beautiful quirk of the human body, that it can take pain and reinterpret it as pleasure.”

Aramis removes his hand from d’Artagnan’s neck – somewhat reluctantly, but he concedes it’s hardly responsible of him to keep it there given the nature of what they’re discussing. “If you have any questions, you should ask them. I’m afraid I wouldn’t advise you to speak of this except in very select company.”

D’Artagnan thinks for a moment, bites his lip. “You said ‘us’. This is the way some of _us_ are.”

“Yes, I did,” Aramis replies, looking d’Artagnan in the eye, and resisting the temptation to fiddle with his sewing kit.

He doesn’t know if he’s expecting a response; but instead, d’Artagnan suddenly looks around the room, as if it’s just occurred to him that they’re alone. “Where are the others?”

“I sent them out of the room when I realised what you meant,” Aramis replies. “I thought you’d probably want to keep this between us.”

“Thank you.” D’Artagnan frowns then, and screws up his face in indecision; trying to decide whether or not to ask the question that’s already bursting out of him, which Aramis decides is more attractive a look on him than it has any right to be. “Do you do this…?”

“For fun? Yes, but not with needles,” Aramis smiles. “But there are lots of ways to let yourself feel the pleasure in pain. Being beaten is probably the most common one.”

“And that’s _fun?_ ”

“Yes, if it’s done right. But I wouldn’t advise you to go and get yourself thirty lashes for the same experience. Better to find someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“Do you?” d’Artagnan replies immediately – and then flushes as he realises what he’s just asked, and buries his head in the table again; and his greenness is so _charming_ that Aramis almost wants to laugh in delight. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles against his arm, “I shouldn’t assume that you – I mean – oh God, I’m sorry.”

“D’Artagnan, stop babbling,” Aramis replies, with a forcefulness he hasn’t strictly speaking earned the use of yet, reaching out again to hook a finger under d’Artagnan’s chin and lift it until he’s looking him in the eye again. “As it happens, it would give me great pleasure. Though we will have to wait until you’re healed, of course. Have you thought about who you want to look after you yet?”

D’Artagnan frowns. “Look after me?”

Aramis smiles, remembering that this is the boy’s first real injury. “Look, it’ll take at least a week for you to heal well enough for me to take the stitches out, and probably longer. And given the location of the cut, you’ll barely be able to walk, and you definitely won’t be able to sit. So unless you’re going to ask Madame Bonacieux to help you to the privy every time, I don’t think you’ll be going home straight away.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan replies, embarrassment plain in his face. “I hadn’t realised.”

“And this is why there’s no modesty among soldiers,” Aramis replies, ruffling his hair briefly. “We’ve all been there. A couple of years ago, Athos, Porthos and I were on a mission in Champagne when I managed to break my ankle and get stomach flu simultaneously, and I was weak as a kitten for days. The only upside was that I felt so rotten, I didn’t even care who was holding me up while I wiped my arse ten times a day.”

D’Artagnan winces in sympathy. “You make the prospect of being stuck on my front for a week sound good by comparison.”

“It’s important to keep these things in perspective,” Aramis replies with a chuckle. “Now, either we can have you moved to the garrison and Lapointe can keep an eye on you, or you can stay with me and I can nurse you back to health.”

D’Artagnan raises an eyebrow. “Do you make this sort of offer to everyone?”

“Only the pretty ones,” Aramis teases, thumbing d’Artagnan’s bottom lip.

“I’m not _pretty_ ,” d’Artagnan protests hotly, as Aramis had predicted. “Handsome, perhaps, but not _pretty_.”

“Whatever makes you secure in your manhood,” Aramis replies, taking d’Artagnan’s jaw in his hands. “May I?” he asks softly, eyes intent.

D’Artagnan nods hurriedly; and Aramis doesn’t wait another moment to close the gap between them, pressing his closed lips to d’Artagnan’s for only a brief moment, before licking his way into his mouth and claiming his space there, savouring the warmth of it, the faint taste of brandy.

“I’ll get a bed made up, then,” Aramis says as he pulls away again, enjoying the look of dazed pleasure on d’Artagnan’s face, “and find you some clean linens. And from then, you have two choices. Either you can rest – really rest – until the cut’s healed enough that you don’t have to lie on your front any more, or I can teach you everything I know about the joys of delayed satisfaction.

“Why don’t you have a think and let me know,” Aramis finishes with a wink as he gets up from the chair, even though the lust darkening d’Artagnan’s eyes already makes it clear what the answer’s going to be.

He can’t resist briefly running his hand over d’Artagnan’s uninjured buttock before going around to open the door to the next room, where he’s immediately greeted by twin suspicious glares from Athos and Porthos, who have apparently been at his wine supply in the meantime.

At least they weren’t listening at the door, Aramis decides.

“Everything’s good, gents,” he announces with a bright but not particularly sincere smile, which he knows that Athos, at least, finds deeply annoying. “I’m going to make up a bed for him here, and then if one or both of you could help me move him.”

“What was all that about?” Porthos asks, polishing off what looks to Aramis like a very good bottle of Anjou.

Aramis leans in slightly towards them, purely for dramatic effect. “I had to explain to young d’Artagnan the realities of recovering from injury,” he replies in an undertone. “I thought he’d appreciate not having an audience.” At Porthos’ slightly blank look, he continues. “Remember Champagne.”

Athos grimaces. “How could we forget.”

Aramis just smiles sweetly in response and goes to get the extra sheets out of the armoire – which is probably going to be a bit of a waste of time really, for all that it’s necessary to maintain appearances.

Given the way d’Artagnan’s just been looking at him, he can’t imagine they’re going to be needing that extra bed for very long at all. 


End file.
